((New post, because it is good for the universe. I would like to applaud all of the Cravat's fine members for not making a home/Holmes pun, nor yet a Holmesosexual pun. Not yet.))

Location: The CravatTime: Out of time

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stumbled out of the portal, Watson still a little wide eyed at the prospect of time travel, Holmes retaining his famous composure. They stood in wait of the others, avoiding each other's eyes.

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"Oh my - really?" This deluge of compliments was beginning to make Watson go quite red. "Thank you very much, Mr. Rosenburg. I should greatly enjoy reading something of yours someday, I'm sure you are not half so untalented as you pretend." He studiously did not look at Holmes, a feeling of angry resentment beginning to tighten into a knot in his stomach.

Holmes stiffened, aware that something was wrong, but attempted to ignore it. "I am glad you find you have ground in common with Watson, Rosenburg. You shall be together for quite some time."

"It could take him some time, bel," Gabe said, giving Holmes a puzzled look. Watson's reaction was entirely not what he had been expecting. Things between the two Victorians were even more stilted than before. What, he wondered, had changed? He decided to ponder it later, perhaps ask Jeannot's opinion, and gave him a smile before continuing. "But we'll have our own room, and there's a cot we can set up, as well. I even saw a set of paints in the closet, if you want them."

"Yes, you are a painter, are you not," Holmes said without a question mark. "I knew it from the moment I saw all the specks on your clothes." He gestured absently at the paint on Jeannot's coat.. "Never quite get it out, do you? Turpentine is best for oil," Holmes volunteered, not saying how he knew this.

Watson remained silent, in uncomfortable anticipation of Holmes's certain interrogation as to why he was so taciturn, but it did not come.

"Of course," Gabe answered, glad for any excuse to leave the two Victorians to their staring match. One could cut the repression with a knife, and he didn't like it. He led Jeannot into the closet, closing the door part way to afford both couples a bit of privacy.

It occurred to him that he hadn't made out in a closet since high school, but he pushed that thought to the top of his mind. "There's a few different kind of paints there," he said, and pointed. "And then there's a few cans of wall-paint on the floor, if you want those." He sighed, relieved to be free of the Victorianism he feared was contagious. "G-d," he murmured. "Just when I thought the two of them couldn't get more awkward."

Gabe looked at Jeannot curiously and squeezed his hand. "Whatever happened," he said, careful not to push it. "It's probably more the fault of their prudishness than of you." He pulled Jeannot closer and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Don't worry about it, really." He smiled. "They'll be sleeping together again by the time we leave."

Gabe sighed, lifting one hand to stroke the back of Jeannot's head, the other holding him in close. "Stop apologizing," he murmured. "You have nothing to be sorry about. What happened, happened, and, hell, if there actually is anything for you to be sorry about, I forgave you for it before it even took place."

As far as Gabe was concerned, the entire world around them had stopped existing the second he'd taken Jeannot into his arms. He pressed into Jeannot's kiss, finally moving away for a moment. "Love you," he said, not caring if they were overheard, before leaning back in to kiss his love tenderly.